Promises
by tiylaya
Summary: Promises are sometimes easier to make than keep… and sometimes even the best intended promise must be broken. An anthology of short stories on the same theme.
1. Alan: Give the Word

**Promises**

 _Promises are sometimes easier to make than keep… and sometimes even the best intended promise must be broken._

This is a work of fan-fiction, deriving from the 1960s AP Films television series "Thunderbirds" (i.e. 'Classic Thunderbirds' rather than the 2004 movie or TBAG). Characters and situations are used without permission and not for profit.

This will be an anthology of short pieces each inspired by the TIWF 2015 'Promises' challenge, in which a main character either keeps or breaks a promise in a story of under 5000 words. Each will be complete when posted. The first, 'Give the Word' was my entry in the challenge.

Comments and constructive criticisms always welcome!

* * *

 **Give the Word**

"You're sure the main shaft can't be cleared?"

It's not like Scott to question Virgil's judgement. Even now there's no real doubt in his voice. He's asking more out of concern than uncertainty. I share the emotion, restless futility driving me to pace Thunderbird Five's deck as I try to figure out my brothers' next move. With the lift shaft blocked by earthquake debris, extracting the trapped men from the salt mine below is going to be a whole lot harder. Virgil's grim expression says that he knows that too.

"Jammed solid. Even if I tried, this place is too unstable for heavy machinery – "

Five's sensors chime, and one stride takes me to the console, my finger stabbing at the microphone switch.

"Aftershock!"

A blur of movement on the wrist-com screens. The worst of it passes quickly, but the clatter of falling debris continues for long seconds before the first link clears to reveal Virgil's dirt-grimed face. He looks unhurt, his free hand raised to cover his mouth as he coughs the dust from his throat. A mile from the mine, where the evacuated personnel have gathered on the closest stable ground, Scott has weathered the shock too. His sharp blue eyes study Virgil's image and the small cluster of mine foremen behind him, before flicking towards the link to Five and offering me a small smile.

"Thanks, Alan."

"It's what I'm here for."

Not entirely, of course. I've got another role too. I scroll again through the information Five has on the Amarna Salt Mine, hesitating over the plan and rotating it through three dimensions.

"Thunderbird Five to Mobile Control. Scott, there's a fair-sized ventilation shaft driven down from the second level. Maybe…?"

My suggestion trails off, uncertain of its heading. Sure, Virgil could abseil down the shaft, but that's not going to be much help in getting all twelve miners, two of them seriously injured, back up. Thunderbird Five sounds another quiet alert. Another aftershock, this time second magnitude, with a dozen smaller tremors following in its wake. We must be due for a big one soon. Time's running out.

"Virgil!" Scott barks out the name, and I tense instinctively. I know that note in my brother's voice. "The lift-cage. Was it at the top of the main shaft or the bottom?"

"Top." Virgil knows that tone too. Scott's got a plan… and he doesn't like it one little bit. "Looks pretty intact." He glances off to one side, examining it with a critical eye. "Even if we can get it there, I don't know if it'll fit down that shaft of Alan's."

"It will." Scott's fingers are flying across Mobile Control, and I give up on checking the dimensions, knowing he's got there before me. "Just. Gonna be tight." Scott's frown deepens. "You're going to have to rig up a cable from Thunderbird Two. Run it down through the upper level to the top of Alan's shaft, and we'll lower the cage."

"Won't it jam?" I get there with the question before Virg can. Even over the video link I can see the scepticism in Virgil's expression. Trying to winch a tight-fitting lift on a twisted cable, threaded down ramps and along corridors…?

Scott takes a deep breath. "Not if I run a second cable from Thunderbird One to balance out the horizontal tension. We can lower it straight down between us."

"But Scott…!" My protest is immediate. Virgil doesn't bother to voice his own. Scott knows as well as we do how close he'd have to bring One to pull that off, and how unstable the ground is after the first quake. Half the galleries of the mine's top level have lost their supports, and it was fifty-fifty that Two would go straight through them when Virgil landed. Adding Thunderbird One's weight ….

Five sounds another warning. "Aftershock. A big one! Brace!"

Magnitude four point six, and this time, when the dust settles, there're new depressions visible across the salt pan. More and more of the abandoned mines are giving out. I read Thunderbird Five's analysis with dismay. "Sixty-forty on a magnitude six 'shock in the next hour."

"No choice then. Gotta go in." Scott's voice is tight with frustration, aware of the risk but undaunted. "Keep an eye on it, Alan. Give the word."

"F.A.B."

The response spills from my lips with practised ease. The promise it carries is just as automatic.

Thunderbird Five's sensors are already deployed to their fullest. Radar beams sweep the ground second by second, categorising each tremor, watching for the first hint of disaster to come. I monitor them, setting up some of John's familiar algorithms and an innovation or two of my own, as Thunderbird One powers up, lifts and, moments later, settles a few hundred metres from her larger sister. I know Scott will be frowning with nervous concentration, and he's not the only one. I can hear Virgil's distracted tone as he tells the foremen to clear the mine and even here – twenty-three thousand miles from the disaster zone – I watch with my heart in my throat.

Bad enough that Thunderbird Two had to land on unstable ground, without putting Thunderbird One in the same precarious situation. If the choice is between taking that risk and failure though, it's no choice at all. Thunderbird One's winch is needed alongside Two's, so that's where she'll be. Virgil needs another pair of hands in the salt mine so Scott will join him, with caution but without hesitation.

I hear Scott leave the craft and soon the two open communications links merge into a single thread. A brisk inspection of the main shaft and Scott concurs, dismissing the earthquake-damaged route out of hand. Both my brothers have allowed the video link to drop, but their echoing voices let me trace their progress as Scott follows Virgil to the secondary shaft, hauling a hover-bike of gear, and the remote control for One's winch, behind him. Getting the trapped miners out before an aftershock brings their cavern crashing down on them won't be easy, even with two sets of winches to deploy. If it wasn't for Scott's brainwave I'd say there wasn't a hope. With it, with two Thunderbirds supporting the lift cage from the ruined main shaft between them, there might be.

It's up to me to give my brothers that chance. They're trusting me to give them time, to pull them out only when I must – not a moment too soon, and never, ever, a moment too late. It's a burden Scott takes on his own shoulders, whenever he can. He only lets John or me take over when there's no choice, but we've been in action long enough now that this isn't my first rodeo. I listen to the rescue, but my eyes are fixed on the monitors, watching the seismograph's fateful dance. Thunderbird Five is running a thousand simulations a second, calculating the odds, reporting them but leaving the decision in my hands. Only I can make this call.

I let a third magnitude aftershock go by with no more than a sharp order to "brace!" and a brief pause in the rescue. Another. A third, all but lost amidst a thousand smaller tremors that lend a constant rumbling background to my brothers' voices. They're making progress, all but three of the miners are secured in the lift now, but it's taking too much time. We can't have long now, and I'm on my feet in front of the console. My eyes flick constantly from readout to readout, my brow drawn into a tight frown. The lift cage is scraping its way up the makeshift shaft, its metal walls screaming in protest. The rescuees are almost secure, Scott and Virgil with them, but I've got to leave time for them to get clear and into the air, and I know I'm cutting it close, even as I try to predict the unpredictable.

The pattern clears. The probability grid converges. Intuitively, I know that this is it, the last moment, the time to keep the promise I made.

"Scott! Virgil! Get out of there! Now!"

I hear a grunt of effort which stretches out for long seconds before the "F.A.B." of acknowledgement. The scramble that follows is lost amidst the chaotic rumble of sound spilling through the open communications links. I know better than to think they'd leave any of the men behind at this stage. I thought I'd allowed time for my brothers' predictable effort to pull off their miracle, for them to hesitate just a moment longer than logic or self-preservation dictate. Did I allow enough?

This time there're no algorithms to distract me, nothing to do but pace the deck and watch my screens. I call out updates through the comms, reporting the shockwave as it crosses the deceptively flat plain, and the collapse that follows in its wake. I doubt anyone is hearing me. Hollowed by the action of water over aeons, and by the hands of men in a few short years, the salt pan is riddled with caverns and instabilities. The general collapse is natural, just gravity trying to restore balance and close up a vacuum that should never have existed. It feels far from that. It feels like a vindictive hand, reaching out to reclaim the miners it almost seized in the first quake, and my brothers along with them.

Engine warm up on Thunderbird Two. And… come on… come on, Scott… on Thunderbird One. But the shock wave is passing beneath them. Magnitude six point five, more than enough to collapse the ruined mine. Communications cut out, the air too full of static electricity, dust and turbulence for short wave radio to penetrate. I should have expected it. John would have, but it's still a shock to me. In the sudden silence, I realise I'm breathing heavily, my brow damp with perspiration.

For long seconds I can only wait. Displaced air has blasted the billowing dust clouds a kilometre high. They block the optical scanners as effectively as the radio. There is nothing for me to do but think over my actions and wonder if the promise I made was too rash, my decision too slow, and my brothers' trust misplaced. I told them I'd give the word – give them time enough to escape and no more. Had I failed?

Thunderbird Five chimes, and instantly my gaze tracks the alert to its source. The bulk of Thunderbird Two, powering herself through the dust-laden air, is unmistakeable, and the tightness in my chest flutters but doesn't ease. Any second now the radio signal will clear and Virgil will ask…

"Thunderbird Two to Thunderbird Five. This is Thunderbird Two calling Thunderbird Five. Alan, do you see Scott?"

I open my mouth, not sure how to respond, and close it again. Another chime, another alert from my space-borne Thunderbird, a sharp look and I draw in my first deep breath for an eternity.

"Got him on scanners, Virgil. Just behind you."

"F.A.B." Virgil grunts an acknowledgement, and a moment later Scott's voice joins his, the two comparing notes on their close escape. Neither notices when I mute my end of the link and drop back into my chair with a firm nod of satisfaction and a shudder of naked relief.

Promise kept.

* * *

 **The End.**


	2. Virgil: Standing on the Precipice

**Standing on the Precipice.**

 _A second short story based on the theme of 'Promises'. This time it's Virgil's turn to give us a story._

 _Many thanks to Pen Quiller for proof reading (and indeed for proofing chapter one 'Give the Word' - my apologies for omitting that!)_

 _Any mistakes remaining, or which I've put back in, are, of course, still my own. Comments or criticisms are always more than welcome._

* * *

The thick-set man studied his surroundings. Piercing black eyes flicked across sun-blasted, red-brown rock, and skimmed across the sparse vegetation clinging to it. They paused for a moment on a distinctive boulder, the loose pile of grass and twigs beside it, and the precipitous drop beyond. A step in that direction, and he heard a warning hiss. He returned it, undaunted, but stopped nonetheless, shaking his head.

Both hands came up to his head, running first through the curly, black hair that covered his scalp, then smoothing his beard and massaging his face, applying pressure over every inch of smooth yellow-brown skin. Looking up, he rolled his shoulders and subtly adjusted his posture, his demeanour changing like that of a consummate actor settling into the role of a lifetime.

He turned back to the dusty minibus that had brought him here, a new expression on his face. His smile couldn't be called pleasant. That was beyond him, and the expression would disgust him, if he could even bring himself to attempt it. But he could manage ingratiating, even intriguing, as he allowed a shimmer of his natural charisma to show through his inoffensive mask.

One large hand reached out, swiping across the bus's sliding door. The logo of 'Desert Tracker Tours' emerged from the dust, or rather just enough of it to lend the impression of age and experience to the livery.

The Hood nodded. All was prepared. The trap was laid. Now he just needed the right kind of bait.

* * *

"Understood." Dad's tone was stern but not overly worried as he signed off with John and turned back to face us. "On your way, Scott."

Strictly speaking, the order was unnecessary. My eldest brother was already at the hatch to Thunderbird One's hangar, his expression mirroring our father's rueful forbearance as he spun out of sight. Yes, the tourists trapped in the West Arizona desert, lost somewhere in an obscure side-branch of the Grand Canyon, were in deadly danger. Yes, we were the only rescue team able to reach them before heat stroke, dehydration or the threatening rains claimed their lives. Even so, this was pretty routine stuff by our standards.

With Scott doing a fast sweep in One to locate the victims, and me in Two to follow up with the actual rescue, we should be back before Grandma had dinner on the table. It was simple job… simple enough that I almost took pity on the expression on my little brother's face. Alan had been planning a day lounging by the pool, watching Tin-Tin as she, in turn, kept a stern watch on her father. Given that Tin-Tin was already clad in her bikini, with a robe that hinted at more than it concealed draped around her, he had a pretty strong motivation to stick to that plan. The thrill of a skin-of-our-teeth rescue might balance that temptation. An unexciting one like this faced steeper competition. Procedure was procedure though, and with Gordon off on an expedition of his own, Alan was next in line.

"John said there were twenty-one, right?" It's not like I needed the confirmation, but it passed the buck. Dad saw it coming. He didn't grimace at me, but I could see the effort it took. More than twenty victims meant a second pair of hands on Two.

"Alright, Alan. You'd better join Virgil."

"Gee." Alan's deadpan voice mirrored Dad's. His eyes lingered on Tin-Tin for a moment, his expression rueful, before he pushed himself out of his chair with a sigh, his enthusiasm astonishing in its restraint. You might even think he was less than delighted. "Just what I wanted to hear."

"Ahh…"

Alan paused, and I hesitated too, my back against the entry chute to my Thunderbird, both of us stopped in our tracks by the unfamiliar interruption. It was unusual enough for Kyrano to be sitting in the lounge, rather than hovering discreetly in the background. After his nervous attack yesterday, Tin-Tin and Father had insisted he rest, but even so none of us expected him to speak. The sudden attention his words attracted seemed to startle him in return. He was still pale from his fit, and he paled further, looking wan enough that Tin-Tin moved to his side. His mouth worked soundlessly, as if finding the words he wanted was beyond him, before closing. Alan took a step towards the old man, expression curious. I watched, too worried to trouble myself about the delay.

It was Alan's name Kyrano had mumbled during his fit yesterday, the syllables clear despite the pain mangling his Malay speech. Until now, I'd kind of thought our old friend had blanked the episode from his memory entirely, but now there was a strained look in Kyrano's brown eyes as they flicked from Alan to me, and back to settle on Alan.

"Ah... please, Mister Alan, be careful."

Alan laughed. He leaned forwards, gripping Kyrano's shoulder and shooting a reassuring grin at Tin-Tin.

"Always," he promised.

His tone was light, but there were storm clouds in his blue eyes as he turned back to face me and gave a nod of acknowledgement. I hit the switch, starting the journey to my Thunderbird. I'm pretty sure my own eyes were just as thoughtful. All of us had learned to trust Kyrano's instincts and our own. Right now, neither Alan nor I was as sanguine as we'd been a few minutes before.

* * *

"Glad you could join me." There was more curiosity than sarcasm in Scott's voice. Sitting beside me, Alan ignored it with glorious disdain. I did my best to match his expression, glancing down at Scott's image on the view screen with a single raised eyebrow. Our delay on take off had been less than four minutes, relative to our usual prep time. We'd made up the difference, quietly pushing Thunderbird Two to a fraction above her standard cruising speed for the first part of the journey. Scott had precisely as much lead at the danger zone as he knew to expect. And it was all he'd needed.

He dismissed any explanation with a wave of one hand, the other reaching out to punch a command into Mobile Control. Coordinates appeared on my screen, suggesting a set-down point a little behind Thunderbird One, perhaps half a mile from an abandoned tourist bus. I followed the silent instruction, careful to come in from the angle Scott specified, noting as I did so that it avoided washing the nearby crevasse with Two's jet-blast. I already had a pretty fair guess where we'd find the tourists before Alan and I deplaned. We jogged past the minibus – its lurid green 'Desert Tracker' livery only marginally improved by a muting screen of red dust – and neither of us was surprised to find our big brother tapping his foot with marked impatience.

"Right. They're on a ledge, about halfway down. The path they took crumbled so they've no way back." He rolled his eyes. "And their idiot of a tour guide is trapped with them."

No time wasted on greetings. Alan and I exchanged a smirk. Scott's dinner was waiting and it would take a braver man than either of us to delay it more than we had to. From the way Scott's gimlet eyes raked us as he went on, I'm pretty sure he knew what was going through our minds, and didn't care one jot.

"I dropped water and a sun canopy, but they're going to roast before anyone else gets here. And that storm's not going to hold off for ever." He shook his head impatiently. "This probably needs the rescue cage. Virge, you're going to have to keep Two steady to avoid dislodging anything from the cliff sides. Alan, you'd better go down in the cage and get them in at the bottom. I'll stand by in the Pod to get them settled."

Standard procedure. One we'd pulled off a dozen times before. It was almost enough to make me forget the awkward promise Kyrano had extracted from Alan. Almost. Shaking my head, I dismissed the thought as the three of us jogged back to Thunderbird Two, my brothers heading for the Pod as I diverted to the cabin.

* * *

Hovering halfway down a narrow gorge was always a challenge, and doing it under a blazing noon-day sun wasn't my favourite hobby. The rock walls wavered through the turbulent air, its heat haze making distances hard to judge. The sudden downdrafts and gusts that threatened to knock either Two or the dangling rescue cage into those shimmering walls were worse. It wasn't as if I had much leeway to play with. I'd come down vertically and I'd have to go up the same way, with no more than a few tens of metres allowance on either side of my wing-tips. In the meantime I had to keep her steady. For a solid twenty minutes, my focus narrowed to my controls and the monitors that showed me first Alan, descending in the cage, and then Scott, helping each batch of four wilting tourists to the Pod's bench seats at the end of their vertical trip.

"The man is a fool!" The snarl, voiced in a thick south-western accent, broke the rhythm and drew my eyes to the monitor that showed the Pod interior. The fifth group had tumbled out onto the deck, three of them sinking to the cool metal, even as Scott tried to chivvy them away from the open hatch. Only one man was still upright, his fleshy face as red as a beetroot and streaming with perspiration. He staggered a few steps, grasping Scott's arm and apparently oblivious to the way my military-trained brother tensed. "Call himself a guide? He couldn't guide a rampant bull to the nearest heifer!"

"I'll have a word with him, sir. Trust me on that." Scott's professional expression didn't change as he gently disengaged, guiding the flaccid man to the nearest bench and pressing a bottle of cool water into un-protesting hands. It wasn't until he glanced up at the camera, meeting my eyes across the video link that he allowed himself the merest eye-roll of impatient amusement. He got the others seated before turning back to the angry man. "Which one is he?"

"It's not like I wanted to come on this darned tour in the first place." A Southern tourist, in full flow, wasn't about to let calm words divert him. He took a swig from the water bottle, half-choking but barely pausing in his rant. "I'd swear the man must have hypnotised the lot of us to get us into that sorry excuse for a bus. I should report the whole darned company. I mean, working air-con has got to be the legal minimum, am I right?"

I'd have gone with emergency equipment and a decent beacon, myself, but then I hadn't driven halfway across the desert under the blazing afternoon sun. Scott didn't voice his own opinion. If the man noticed my brother's non-committal murmur, he didn't acknowledge it. Scott was already helping another woman to adjust her seat belt, his sharp eyes scanning the group in vain for their incompetent guide. The vociferous tourist shuffled along the bench, making space with ill-grace, before jerking a thumb towards the still-open hatch.

"Still down there," he grunted.

Alan!

There's no reason why the man's words should have sent such a shock through me. Scott barely seemed to notice them, still focussed on getting the fourth group settled before sending the rescue cage back for our little brother and the final man. Maybe it was Kyrano's unvoiced warning. Maybe it was an instinct entirely of my own. Either way, my eyes snapped back to the external monitor in time to see the folded sun-shield slip from Alan's fingers and my brother step back from the thick-shouldered, curly-haired guide, raising one hand to his temple and shaking his head sharply as if to clear it. Something about that figure… memory niggled at me, an unease I couldn't put a name to.

"Thunderbird Two to Al…"

It happened faster than I could speak.

Whether the strange guide had manoeuvred Alan towards the narrow corner of the ledge deliberately, or whether it was chance, I watched my brother stumble into the large rock there. The communications channel I'd opened echoed with an angry, coughing hiss. For a moment, I couldn't understand where the noise came from or why Alan gasped. Then I saw the fierce, two-foot long lizard scrambling forward from the rock's shadow, her jaws gaping and a clutch of juveniles behind her.

Alan scrambled backwards almost as fast, memories of the alligator incident reinforcing his instinctive fear of the hissing Gila monster.

And then… and then the edge of the cliff was crumbling, and Alan's hands were scrambling amidst the loose gravel for a non-existent purchase, and the guide was standing over him with a fierce smile, and the angry lizard was still coming, and Alan was _falling_ …

* * *

Brains designed the Thunderbirds to spin on the spot, using no more than their own length as a turning circle. I've seen Scott pull it off in Thunderbird One without breaking a sweat. Thunderbird Two was twice the length, nose to tail, and I had precisely three metres grace between her and solid stone walls. I don't know that I'd want to try it with a few hours to plan and prepare the manoeuvre. I did it in three seconds flat on pure instinct.

Alan seemed to be falling faster than physically possible, and at the same time in slow motion. I willed Thunderbird Two to drop faster. My chest tightened, my breath frozen in my throat, each heartbeat stretching out and thundering through my skull.

The contoured back of my chair pressed into my shoulders, centrifugal force trying to throw me out of my seat. Let it try. Nothing was going to tear my hands from that control yoke, or stop me leaning forward to stab first at the control for the anchor harpoons and then the release for a netting web that caught between them. All the time I could feel the thunder of Two's engines, and the pull of gravity, on my 'bird and on my brother, falling onwards to his doom.

Then there was nothing more I could do.

A red haze in front of my eyes, I stopped my Thunderbird's fall and cancelled her spin, using side thrusters to negate her momentum without blasting the delicate safety net. For a moment, I didn't dare look. I wasn't sure… I just didn't know.

The thunder died from a roar to a murmur. The haze cleared. Directly in front of my cabin, almost out of view below the curve of Two's nose, a nest of orange plastic strands hung raggedly between two steel shafts. Tangled amidst it, my searching eyes picked out a ragged shape clad in sky blue.

My console chimed, the communications unit sounding almost subdued after the last few frantic moments. The screen lit, its yellow-bordered image showing orange webbing, and a vertiginous glimpse of the ground beyond rather than my little brother's face.

"Good shooting, Virgil." Alan's voice was level, almost deadpan. Only a tremor on the last word, and a dizzy movement of his wrist-com image as he adjusted his grip on the net, betrayed his fright. "Any chance of a lift out of here?"

"Virgil?" That was Scott on the Pod intercom, his voice cautious and rather shaken. I took a deep breath, trying not to let the reaction show in my reply.

"Apologies to our passengers for the rough ride. Scott, would you rig a winch harness? We need to pick Alan up."

If Scott had questions, and I knew for a fact he had a throat-full, he choked them down, his response clipped and efficient.

"F.A.B."

* * *

"That guide: where is he?" Scott's cold tones announced my brothers' arrival almost before I heard the cockpit door slide open. Relief sent a shudder down my spine as I turned in my chair. Alan had been pretty clear that he wasn't hurt, but I didn't trust any of my brothers with that kind of statement. Scott's anger was independent confirmation. If Alan has been sporting anything more than bruises, our eldest brother would have different priorities.

I stole a few moments to absorb the sight of Alan, tousled and rubbing one arm, but alive and well. It wasn't until Scott dropped into the seat beside me and tapped his foot with pointed impatience that I refocused on my elder brother and realised he was still waiting for an answer.

I blinked stupidly at him. To be honest, with Scott directing me through minute readjustments of Two's position as he worked to get Alan into a harness and pulled aboard, keeping watch on the idiot who'd started this whole mess hadn't been high on my priority list. Scott didn't call me out on the oversight. He started working at Thunderbird Two's sensor bank with a silent scowl.

Frowning, I turned back to my own console, letting my hands drift smoothly over the controls. The rescued tourists were finally strapped down in the pod, Alan was safe aboard, and, if I was honest, I wasn't going to lose any sleep if Two's backwash caught the bearded guide unawares. It was time to get out of this damned gorge.

I don't think any of us were surprised to see the ledge empty as we passed. We met the sight with silence. It was Alan who broke it.

"Guess I was kind of lucky, hey?"

Scott's shudder was eloquent. He covered it with a glare, turning in his seat to pin our little brother with his eyes. "You sure you don't remember his face?"

"Beard. Mirrored glasses. I think he took them off, but…. It's all a bit blurry."

"Hmm." Scott shot me a questioning look. All I could do was shrug, unable to be any clearer.

"Sorry, Scott."

None of us gave voice to the suspicions I'm pretty sure we all shared. The brief glimpse I'd had of the bearded man distracting Alan – or doing something to him anyway, there'd be time to go into that later – was burned into my memory. While I couldn't swear to it, a bitter taste in my mouth told me I'd seen that broad-shouldered silhouette before.

This wasn't the first time we'd had a straightforward mission go awry, and it wasn't the first time the mysterious instigator had faded into the background with an ease that belied his bulky form. I knew it. Scott knew it. Alan knew it too.

Scott turned back to the scanner before settling into his chair with a shake of his head and a tired sigh. His weariness showed, a permanent frown tracing a line between his eyebrows. This rescue had already taken longer than any of us had anticipated… and presented far more of a strain. Any thought of being back for dinner had been abandoned hours before. In truth, I think we'd all pretty much lost our appetites. Alan looked washed out, and I was pretty sure the tension had left its mark on my own face. Scott took the sight of us in at a glance.

"You'd better take the tourists back to town. We'll leave the bus." He stretched, a wince hinting that he'd not escaped my rapid spin entirely unscathed. "Put me down at Thunderbird One."

"F.A.B."

I wasn't surprised to see Scott had already scanned his Thunderbird for signs of an intruder. I repeated the scan anyway, better to be safe than sorry, and Scott stayed on my sensors from the Pod to his cockpit, and again as Thunderbird One swept the length of the crevasse before swinging up and settling in on our wing.

"He's gone."

Scott shadowed us until we'd dropped off the tourists, with warnings about unregistered tours and inadequate equipment, and were back in the air. Only then did he peel off, sweeping once more over the rescue zone before setting Thunderbird One's red nose-cone for home. I followed, Thunderbird Two powering her way through the air under my command, showing no sign of strain after her acrobatics of an hour or two before.

Not for the first time, we'd escaped a threat none of us knew quite how to define. I'd call it luck, but I knew better – it was skill, and training, and just possibly a warning that some sense of self-preservation told us not to ignore.

Alan was quiet in the seat beside mine, his gaze unfocused as he watched the clouds glide past.

"You all right?"

"Fine, Virg." A word we've all come to distrust. "Really, I'm okay." He grinned, the expression still a little wan, but unforced. "Only there's no need to tell Kyrano about this one, right?"

"What happened to _'oh, I'm **always** careful_ '?"

"I'd like to see you 'be careful' with a monster lizard about to take an arm off." Alan's face twisted into a scowl of indignation, his rapid bounce-back from the shock only partly an act. I let the exaggeration pass, knowing the whole reptile thing was still a sore point with my youngest brother. If our mysterious adversary had deliberately set out to startle Al off that cliff, he could hardly have selected a better shock. There was no way the man could know that, but the thought was worrying nonetheless. "Besides," Alan's strident tone softened, turning in my direction and giving in to the one moment of naked gratitude that either of us would allow. "After what Kyrano said, I knew you'd be watching out for me."

I cleared my throat, already embarrassed by the unspoken thanks, already wanting to leave this incident behind us and move on. Scott was well ahead, halfway home, and I reached forward, taking Thunderbird Two up to maximum speed. The glance I threw at Alan was sidelong, hurried, but no less sincere for all that.

"Always," I promised.

Alan rolled his eyes, the gentle sarcasm registering as I imitated his easy tone of a few hours before. Then he chuckled. I echoed him, soft and satisfied, and relaxed properly for the first time since John's call summoned us into action. Sitting back in my chair, I let my Thunderbird carry us home.

* * *

"Curses!"

The deep voice was harsh, its tones roughened by dust and heat and by his hurried withdrawal. Concealed behind a canvas hide, its dirt-smeared surface blending perfectly with the rocks to either side, the Hood watched the sleek silver Thunderbird pass low over the crevasse before rising up to join its larger sibling.

The sun glinted off its sides, flashing through his vision, blinding him with its clean light. He scowled, turning his face back towards darkness.

He'd planned to rid the world of at least one of the cursed men of International Rescue, an act of revenge for a dozen foiled plots and insurance against interference in his future work. If all had gone to plan, he might have made a more material profit. With the survivors combing the rocky landscape below for the boy's remains, Thunderbird One would have been abandoned on the cliff top and his for the taking. As it was, the green Thunderbird had stayed at a hover, its enigmatic bulk keeping him pinned down for fear any movement would be observed. There'd been no opportunity for him to reach the smaller craft, even if he'd had the time.

"Curse you, International Rescue!"

The echoes of Thunderbird One's ascent had faded, their last remnants scattered by the sun-driven thermals that roiled through the crevasse. Scowling, the Hood stood. He hauled the hide away, revealing the jet pack he'd stowed here in advance. It would take only a few minutes to reach his hidden ornithopter, and then he could leave this place behind him, and with it the ruin of his plans. His anger though… that he would take with him, adding it to the burning store within. International Rescue had been lucky today, but this wasn't the last time the meddlesome fools would feel his wrath.

That was a promise.

* * *

 **The End.**


	3. Scott: When Lives are in Danger

_A/N: My apologies for the delay, for some reason ff has not been allowing me to upload this file for the last week or so. In any case, it's time for Scott to have his say on the theme of 'Promises'. Thanks again to Quiller for checking this over for me - as always, remaining mistakes and those I've added back since she saw it are all my own, and comments are eagerly welcomed!_

 **Scott - While lives are in danger**

* * *

The crowd was quiet and tense. I watched them from Mobile Control, my eyes picking out pale faces and hands grasped tight, writhing as they twisted in unconscious motion. Even Thunderbird Two's landing caused no more than a low, worried murmur.

I think they knew.

I think they already understood that this wasn't going to be the miracle they were all hoping for. They'd probably suspected it since the building fell, long before I brought Thunderbird One overhead to sweep the unstable wreckage with infrared, radar and sonar scans. I was pretty sure the local police lieutenant knew it too. He was back on the perimeter, checking with his officers, talking quietly to others in the crowd, but his sombre eyes swept back to me from time to time, and past me to the muster point on the far side of the danger zone.

He could see as well as I could what the danger here really was.

Two settled in a cloud of dust. Virgil jogged up to Mobile Control before it cleared, his serious expression a match for my own. "No go, Scott?"

I spared my brother a shake of my head. "Carter won't budge. I can't convince him."

The words ground out of me. Virgil followed my gaze to the cluster of local rescue crews visible beyond Thunderbird Two's bulk. His brown eyes were tight with strain but as determined as my own. We'd known before we left the Island what we were getting into. It had all been there in John's face when he called down from Five and told us we had a Kolkata Situation.

Kolkata, where there'd never been a chance of survivors.

Where first satellite scans, then local rescue equipment and finally an army unit who'd turned out from their base nearby had confirmed no signs of life. Kolkata, where Brains concluded there was no chance of our even getting to the bodies without a serious risk of disaster. Where Dad decided not to launch... and a local rescue unit of seven souls went in despite all our warnings.

Where only one of them came out.

Dad had been right. We all knew that. When the bodies were finally recovered – after almost a week of delicate stabilisation work – they'd proved beyond doubt that none of the initial victims had still been alive when the rescuers set out. That didn't ease the guilt for any of us.

It had taught us a lesson. It had given us a shorthand too. Now, when the calls came in, at least we knew what the stakes were.

The local fire chief had introduced himself in a near-snarl as Nathan Carter. He wasn't a big man, but his frame was solid and well trained. He had to be in his forties, a little older than either Virgil or me, and used to being obeyed. Impatience had driven him back to his own crews while we waited for Thunderbird Two. It was still there as he jogged back to Mobile Control, frustration written on his face. Behind him, we could see his team rigging up, checking one another's gear as they prepared.

"Let me guess?" His expression was an angry sneer. "You've assessed the situation and decided to back out?"

Carter had seen the same evidence we had. I'd shown him our data as well as reviewing his own while we waited for Thunderbird Two to arrive. Even so, he'd not listened to my arguments, or accepted the evidence in front of him. He'd insisted that we couldn't be sure. That there was still hope, and we couldn't sit back and do nothing. The idea that the two missing victims, probably personal friends in a town this small, had been gone before he even called us was incomprehensible to him. He'd rejected it utterly and turned instead on those, like his police colleague, like me, who tried to make him see it.

"I am briefing my team-mate, sir." I kept my voice polite, but put a note of command in it. I'd be courteous, but there were limits. "Now if you'd just back off a little as I asked? We're going to need room when we decide on equipment."

I could see Virgil weighing up the man, making his own judgement about Carter's state of mind and then looking at the buzz of activity behind him, before turning back to me with a short nod.

"I'll unload the Domo." He paused, considering, as his eyes ran over the piled rubble and then leaned over Mobile Control to check a detail on its screen. "And the Firefly."

"F.A.B."

Virgil hurried off before the fire chief could think of anything to say, not looking back. I ignored the man's bluster myself, in turns relieved and concerned that Virgil agreed with my opinion.

If it had just been this one man holding out against reason, we could have removed him and settled the situation, but there were at least a dozen others, a unit from this town and another from one of its near-neighbours, at the muster point. Like their chief, they were fully expecting us to bug out, and readying themselves to take our place. Behind them, a subset of the crowd, one swollen with able-bodied men, pressed forward, urging them on and even willing to join them.

If we left now, as all reason and the plain facts demanded, then others would brave the wreckage in our stead. Others less well equipped, less experienced and far less protected.

Just like Kolkata.

The Pod door dropped and I could hear the roar of the Domo as its engine started. Muttering a repeated order to back off at the fire chief, I locked down Mobile Control and jogged over to the ramp, as determined as Virgil to complete the job in front of us.

We might never have said it aloud, never put words to the thought, but we each made a promise when International Rescue went into operation. It's one we renewed after Kolkata, one we're determined to keep.

We can't save every poor soul lost to tragedy and disaster, but we will never turn away when one is in danger. If it's in our power to prevent the loss of a single life, we'll do so – whatever that takes.

* * *

I was in the Domo, fighting the inevitable, when the wreckage completed its fall, crashing down into the building's third sub-basement and taking first the Firefly and then the Domo itself with it. Checking with Virgil over the radio, too tense and too busy to spare any of my attention, I didn't get to watch the fire chief's reaction. It was only later, when I reviewed the footage from Mobile Control's automatic vide-log, that I saw the blood drain from Carter's face and the ghastly pallor of realisation overtake him. In that moment, he knew that what Virgil and I had survived would have annihilated him and his men. I saw his fists clench tight by his side, a momentary tremor shaking him… and then his jaw clenched, his cheeks flushing red.

At the time, I didn't see, and I didn't care. Virgil and I had other things on our minds.

We were both filthy and exhausted when we located the two long-dead victims and brought them back to those who loved them. There were cries of grief, and even one or two of anger, as we failed to produce the miracle they'd hoped for against all reason. We handed the bodies off to the local ambulance crew at the muster point, nodding sombre acknowledgement of their thanks, and only then taking the time to look one another over and breathe deeply of the fresh air outside the rubble.

It was Virgil who noticed Carter first. His tired eyes flicked over my shoulder, his expression wary. I turned, and there the man was. His gaze was raised to the Firefly and the Domo, still parked in the open and showing the dents and scrapes that bore mute testimony to their fall. The fire chief was still pale, but his body was rigid with tension. He turned back to us and there was no apology in his expression that I could see, and no doubt. Conviction and determination had overtaken his shock. He and his men would have been killed, he knew that. And he knew, as I knew and Virgil knew, that hindsight changed nothing in this duty of ours. Convinced there was still hope, he'd have gone in whatever the risk - and even now he believed with all his heart that he'd had no other choice to make.

"Nathaniel?" The call stopped us from having to find words for the moment.

The fire chief half-turned, expression surprised. The crowd around the perimeter was starting to break up, hope gone. The gap where the ambulance left the muster still hadn't closed, and a woman stood there, patting the district lieutenant's arm in thanks as he lifted a tape to let her through.

"Beth, you shouldn't be in here." Carter muttered the words without real force behind them. It was the first hint of softening I'd seen in the man, an awkwardness that contrasted sharply with the brusque exterior we'd seen. The woman, his wife most likely, ignored him, crossing the concrete underfoot at a near-run to throw her arms around him.

"I was in town when I heard the news. I was so worried about you."

We didn't hear what he said to her in return. Virgil tapped my arm and I nodded, heading back to load the Domo, leaving the couple their privacy.

It was the police lieutenant who thanked me as I was packing up Mobile Control, his voice low but grateful.

"Not your fault what happened. You fellers did your best." His eyes tightened at the corners in recognition of the lives lost, but his attention was focussed back at the muster, and on the man now marshalling the fire-crews back to their trucks. "Thank you for trying." He hesitated. "Nathan Carter's a good man. He would have done what he could…"

The sentiment trailed off, the implications unspoken. I met the cop's eyes with my own, putting my understanding into my steady gaze.

"I never doubted it."

Like us, Carter had promised never to give up on a soul who could be saved. We'd kept our promise, so he didn't have to.

I remembered the pale face of the man's wife, and the glimpses I'd had of other worried faces, others who would hold those brave fire crews tight tonight and shake as they thought of what might have been.

The thought sustained me as I watched Thunderbird Two launch and then climbed into my cockpit, weary and ready to return home. Despite the bitterness of the rescue, I knew that today's job had been well done.

Some promises were worth keeping.

* * *

 **The End.**


	4. John: The Perils of Inattention

**John - The Perils of Inattention**

 _Set a few days after "Attack of the Alligators"._

* * *

"Uh-huh."

Alan gave a nod, apparently satisfied by my vague murmur of agreement. He paced Five's deck and went on, his words blending into a meaningless stream of sound as I focussed on the checklist in front of me. Usually I'd have this systems check out of the way long before Thunderbird Three made its approach. In the aftermath of the Theramine affair, there'd been too much else to keep me busy. The few minutes I'd managed to set aside for routine tests had been stolen by a string of distress signals. None had really needed International Rescue, but determining that, reassuring the callers and passing them on to local services all took time.

So, pleased as I was to see Alan with nothing more than a fading bruise to show for his alligator encounter, I had no qualms about filtering out his stream of 'news' (read 'gossip') as I concentrated on the formalities. I didn't need to relive the ins and outs of the last few rescues, or the birthday party I'd missed. As long as I nodded, or shook my head for occasional variety, at regular intervals, my little brother would continue unprompted. I let him get on with it.

I was tallying up the last two columns of figures, double-checking the automatic calculation, when Scott wandered through the link to Thunderbird Three. He was just in time. I ticked off the last totals and signed the checklist with a flourish. Done. Thunderbird Five was Alan's for the next month and he was more than welcome to it.

"… And don't worry, Scott. Johnny's promised to take care of it. Right, John?"

"Sure." … wait… what?

His eyes scanning the signed paperwork, Alan missed my confused expression. Scott doesn't miss anything. He raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, and for a moment I relaxed, knowing I could quiz my big brother as soon as we got Three underway. Then Scott grinned, his blue eyes dancing with amusement. He clapped me on the back, letting his arm settle across my shoulders.

"Gee, John. You're a braver man than I am."

Well… gosh darn it. Scott's tone was entirely serious, all hint of his grin wiped away before Alan turned back to us. It was a challenge I couldn't ignore. There was nothing for it. I pulled a smug expression across my face, straightening my shoulders under Scott's affectionate half-embrace.

"This is news?" I asked in mock surprise. My brother's arm tightened, his other hand coming up to rub his knuckles across the back of my head. I swatted him away, patting at my hair to settle it after the rough treatment, and Scott chuckled, already turning to the hatch.

"C'mon, Johnny. Let's head on home."

"See you next month, bro." Alan seemed more relaxed already, settling into the central chair. He frowned briefly, stopping me in the hatchway. "Only you'd better not tell Tin-Tin what I said, okay?

"That, kiddo, is not going to be a problem."

This time I meant it.

* * *

Big Brother was watching me. I could feel his amused eyes on me all through our descent then during the evening meal that followed our landing. I ignored them manfully. Okay, so I was kicking myself for not giving in and asking Alan what the heck he meant straight away, or even abandoning my pride and demanding an explanation from Scott as Three undocked. By the time I'd come to the conclusion I should do just that, it was too late to back down.

I had no clue what I'd promised our kid brother.

Scott knew it. And he knew that I knew he knew it. Whether it showed on his face or not, the darned feller was laughing fit to bust. I'd never hear the last of it if I caved and admitted I hadn't been listening now. Scott might not be quite the joker that, say, Gordon or Alan was, but he knew how to milk an advantage, and his memory was a whole lot longer.

I didn't have much of a plan, I'll admit it. After the sleepless nights that were routine on Five, I just wanted a bit of peace and quiet, and my bed was calling. I had a month to figure out what Alan wanted. It would keep.

I was brushing my teeth, peering blearily into the bathroom mirror, when an unfamiliar sound made me hesitate. A rustle? A hiss? I couldn't put a name to it, and quite honestly I was half asleep already. A few seconds listening and the noise was dismissed as a fragment of dream, creeping over me before I'd so much as closed my eyes.

The sound that woke me six hours later was harder to ignore.

I jerked awake, rigid on my bed, tense for a reason I didn't quite understand. Instinct told me to hold still, and I did just that for a long moment. The room was close and muggy with tropical heat. I had a light cover thrown over me, my feet hanging out into free air in an effort to keep cool. Despite the temperature, I shivered and the sound came again. A coughing, screeching growl, it was like nothing I'd ever heard. There was a rustle… and a thump. A sense of movement.

There was _something_ in my room.

It padded closer, making odd, irregular movements through a room so dark that I couldn't even tell how close the thing was. I twitched, willing my muscles to unlock and my eyes to unravel the pitch blackness.

And _something_ nibbled at my big toe.

I don't think of myself as particularly brave. Not in the hero-of-the-hour way that Scott and Virgil are, or even with the where-angels-fear-to-tread boldness of our little brothers. I'll take risks, sure, but I can't say I like it all that much, and I sure like to know what I'm dealing with.

Right now, I was scared as heck.

There was nothing brave about scrambling to my feet to confront the intruder. It was that or be eaten where I lay. And it wasn't courage that stopped me yelling for backup. For all I knew, the thing in my room would take that as the ringing of a dinner gong. Besides, if one of us had to be eaten tonight, it wasn't going to be one of my brothers. It didn't take nerve, or even thought, just pure instinct to decide that.

I swatted at my bedside table, knocking a water glass to the ground with a clatter before my outstretched fingers found the light switch. I don't know whether it was the sound, or the light, or some combination of the two, that startled the creature. There was another screeching roar, and a scuttle across my hardwood floor. Maybe it really moved that fast, or perhaps I just had my eyes focussed too high, looking for a beast as big as my imagination made it, but I almost missed it.

Through the light-glare stabbing at my eyes, I saw a flash of grey-green, heard a creak, noticed my bathroom door sway slightly as something knocked against it.

How I got across the room and found that door handle in my grasp. I really don't know. Gordon's room was next to mine, and beyond that Scott's and then Grandma's. If this thing, whatever it was, got out into the house...

I yanked open the door with an abrupt motion, just in time to see a ripple of motion on the surface of the water.

I stopped. Blinked. Whether it happened while I slept, or I'd just been too tired to notice before, my bath had been filled halfway to the brim. I could see the ripples washing across the ceramic walls at the end closest to me. In the light spilling through from my bedroom, the surface looked dark and muddy, and not just because my shadow lay across it. A rugged, scaled form was almost invisible, half-submerged, betrayed only by the two beady eyes that looked back at me, yellow and slitted, level with the murky surface.

"What the…?"

I'm honestly not sure which of us was more bewildered. Certainly neither of us moved as I stared at the creature. Its rough skin looked almost like a floating log. One with teeth and claws and a tail that twitched with nervous tension. Sure, it was maybe a tenth of the size I'd been imagining, and hardly bigger than my forearm, but that still made it big enough to take off a finger, or even a whole hand, if anyone were idiot enough to offer them. I remembered that needle-sharp nip at my toe and kept my hands tucked well in against me as my mind spun.

 _Gordon!_

My shoulders sagged, relief and understanding warring with sheer mind-blowing irritation with my younger brother.

Okay, I got it, kind of. Johnny's the only one of us _not_ to face a giant alligator this week, so let's welcome him home with a miniature one in his tub.

It made sense, in a twisty, _Gordon_ sort of a way. I might have suspected Alan if I hadn't known he wanted something from me… whatever the heck that was. Even Virgil was capable of pulling something like this if he was in the mood, although odds were that Scott would know too in that case, and I was betting our dreadful liar of a big brother would have let something slip. Besides, Scott and Virgil took a little longer to shake these things off than Gordy, and none of us had forgotten the dreadful moments when the two of them had to stand by, as helpless as I was on Five, depending on Gordon's sharp-shooting to save our youngest brother.

So… Gordon, then?

Honestly, joke aside, I was kind of surprised at him. The reptile in my tub looked like a fairly common pygmy croc. It wasn't exactly a rare species; you could get one at any high-end pet boutique, or even on a street market in the right part of the world. That didn't necessarily make it a perfect house pet. Given how down Gordon usually was on captive wildlife, and how obsessed he could be about not bringing alien species back to the island on the 'Birds, it was going a bit far to introduce one just to pull my leg.

And just what the Pete was I meant to do with the creature? The obvious, and most obviously irresponsible, course was to dump the animal back in Gordon's room. Or, I guessed, I could escalate, pulling the same prank on one of our other brothers. Or… Brains, maybe.

It was tempting, if only briefly.

Two things stopped me: the reptilian eyes that followed my every move with unblinking tension, and the memory of the thing's rapid, scuttling retreat.

I spent too many of my days dealing with terror, threat and pain to inflict them on another creature… even a darned alligator. How many times had Dad or Grandma rescued some creepy-crawly from us kids with the old promise, "it's more scared of you than you are of it"? Then, I'd doubted it was true. Now, I was sure of it. The thing was about as happy to be in my bath as I was to have it there. I wasn't about to make it the unwilling prize in a particularly nasty game of pass-the-parcel.

But what were the alternatives…? Let it loose here on the island? Even if I were that dumb, Gordon would have a thousand fits… if Dad let him live that long. Fly it somewhere more appropriate and set it free? Odds were the thing was captive-bred, at least if it had come from somewhere vaguely reputable. It already looked hungry. Actually, it looked like an alligator and maybe the things always looked famished. Or maybe I just remembered the needle-sharp nibble at my twitching toes. Either way, I wasn't casting the thing out to starve.

That didn't mean I could keep it. A beast like this wouldn't stay hidden long, and Dad would hit the roof if he found out someone had pranked me with it. Gordon had to be letting off steam after the Theramine affair. I might be annoyed as heck, but I wasn't enough of a sneak to land him in hot water… or even murky swamp water… for it.

Sighing, I backed up a step, and then another. This was going to take some thought.

* * *

Streamers of pink cloud lit the eastern horizon by the time I logged out of my computer and dropped the keyboard onto the bed beside me. I shivered in the cool pre-dawn air and mentally reckoned up my next moves.

Finding an exotic pet rescue had been the first challenge. Getting in touch with the manager, and persuading him to accept the little monster – along with a hefty donation to the shelter – had been the second. Compared to that, arranging for a specialist animal courier to meet me at the mail depot had been child's play… at least with a Tracy-sized trust fund to pay his once-in-a-decade tip at my disposal.

A trip to the kitchen freezer equipped me with the fish I'd need for bait. Diverting to the basement storeroom added elbow-length leather gloves, a large box and a length of rope knotted into an improvised lasso to my haul.

After that it was just a matter of splashing, scrabbling, tooth-and-claw terror and a few minutes of memory I'd very much prefer to forget before I was done.

Dropping back onto my bed, I caught my breath. The plastic box rattled and shuddered, its walls bowing out momentarily as a muscular tail swiped from side to side.

"More scared of me than I am of it," I reminded myself. "Yeah… sure."

* * *

"Couldn't sleep, Johnny?"

"I was awake. Thought I'd make myself useful."

It wasn't a surprise to find Scott waiting as I taxied back into the family hangar. I'd replaced his name on the mail-run rota with my own and taken off in the early dawn light to complete the chore. I wasn't about to explain why, but I wasn't idiot enough not to expect the question.

"Right…" Scott extended a hand, catching mine wrist-to-wrist and balancing me as I hopped down from the cockpit. A slight frown creased his brow, just the slightest hint of suspicion in his voice. He waited until we were in the lift, almost to the villa above, before voicing it. "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

"What…?" Raised voices in the lounge ahead stopped my question unvoiced.

"You almost missed the excitement." Scott was herding me out of the lift and down the corridor ahead of him. There wasn't time to ask what he was talking about. The lounge opened in front of us, and there were already too many questions in the air to add more of my own.

"But, Mr Tracy! Where could he be? Gordon and I have searched everywhere and Alvin is gone." That was Tin-Tin, her dark eyes bright with distress.

"Oh my!" Grandma, not looking much better. She raised her hands to her face and her feet to a nearby foot-stool, her eyes sweeping the floor.

"Alvin?" Dad seemed to be the only one who shared my confusion.

"The alligator." Virgil, tone neutral, legs firmly tucked under him on the sofa rather than hanging down to the ground.

"I've told you. It's a caiman, not an alligator!" Gordon, frustrated and worried. "If that thing's got loose…. Do you know how many rare birds nest on this island?"

"I've scanned the nesting sites, Gordon." That was Alan, on the link from Five, with the air of someone repeating himself. "No reptile heat signatures larger than four inches, remember?" My youngest brother's eyes widened, his expression betraying a mix of wariness and curiosity as he noticed our arrival. "Look, guys, I told you… the alligator's fine. John promised to take care of it!"

I… promised… to take… _care_ … of… it.

For a moment, I'll admit, I froze. _This_? This was what Alan had meant?"

Scott's hand was still on the small of my back, blocking my retreat, and he gave a gentle shove, forcing me to take another step into suddenly-hostile territory. The reminder that he was there actually helped. Gosh darn it, I'd out-bluffed Scott the day before. If I could hold my nerve against Big Brother, I could stand against anybody. And attack was the best form of defence. I straightened my shoulders, running a hand back through my hair in a flounce of frustration.

"Like I know how to care for an alligator? Caiman? Whatever!" I scowled, folding my arms across my chest. "I took it to… an expert to look after 'till Al gets back."

Twenty-eight days. I had a month at best. Would the rescue centre let me have the beast back? Somehow I doubted it, not after the fuss I'd made getting rid of it. It couldn't be that hard to find a replacement, surely? Unless Alan had taught the thing to answer to its name. Frankly, I wouldn't put it past him.

Except….

I expected Alan's reaction to be indignant and everyone else to calm down now the mystery was solved. Instead, the expressions that met my statement were… interesting. Relief sighed through the room like a cool breeze, and in all my years on Five, I'm not sure I've seen it come in so many different flavours.

"Oh, John!" Tin-Tin reacted first, her tone reproachful. "What's their number? I'll call them. Why spend money on someone when I could look after…"

"Now hold on, honey." Father found his voice before I was halfway to coming up with an answer. "John is right. What if you and the boys were all needed on a rescue?"

"It's happened before." Scott nodded gravely.

Virgil's brow furrowed into a frown as he backed our big brother up. "And, you know, Tin-Tin, Gordon has a point. If that… if Alvin got loose on the island wildlife…"

Gordon winced. Alan looked thoughtful but I didn't miss the flicker of hope on his face.

What was going on here?

For a moment or two, I was flummoxed. Then Alan raised a hand, rubbing at the bruise on his brow with unconscious discomfort. I don't think he even realised he was doing it. Gordon and Virgil flinched in unison. Dad and Scott followed the motion with their eyes, and I realised I was doing the same. The same memory was playing for all of us – Alan knocked unconscious and an alligator bigger than a house mere yards behind him. Maybe 'Alvin' was a pale shadow of that nightmare, but there were enough shadows in our lives. For once, without personalities getting in the way or a word being spoken, the entire Tracy family shared a perfect understanding.

Dad shook his head. "I'm sorry, Tin-Tin honey. I'm going to have to put my foot down. John… do you think your contact might manage to rehome…?"

"I think I can arrange it." I honestly don't know how I got the mixture of thoughtfulness and sincere regret into my tone.

"Gee," Alan managed to echo the former, his attempt at the latter was kind of painful. "That's too bad."

"Oh Alan…" Tin-Tin wrung her hands in distress. "He was your birthday present!"

"I'll really miss him." If there's one thing Alan has mastered without question, it's the hard-done-by martyr look. He pulled it now, on a father, grandmother, and four brothers who knew better, and an exotic beauty who lapped up every second of it.

Scott rolled his eyes, jerking his head to invite Virgil out to the pool side. Gordon tagged along, a mutter as he passed warning me he'd want the details later. Nice of him to give me the time to flesh out my story. Whether he knew it or not, I owed Gordy an apology I'd struggle to make good.

I turned towards the sleeping wing, heading for my room to 'call the expert'. If that involved catching up on a bit of missed shut-eye, then I sure wasn't going to complain.

"Hey, John." Alan's voice stopped me, calling from the monitor. "Thanks."

I drew in a deep breath, letting go the tension that had tightened my muscles since I left Five, marvelling at my sheer dumb luck, and keeping any hint of my bemused wonder from showing on my face. Shrugging, letting a confident grin spread across my face, I sketched a half wave towards the camera. "I said I'd take care of it."

If nothing else, a Tracy is a man of his word.

* * *

 **The End**


	5. Gordon: Bending, not Breaking

_Author's Note: Apologies for the delay. Gordon's been fighting me the whole way on this one._

* * *

 **Gordon: Bending, not Breaking**

"Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Five. Rescue complete, returning to pick-up point."

I couldn't keep the note of satisfaction out of my tone, and, if I'm honest, didn't try all that hard. John grinned in response, his image swimming fuzzily on Four's small screen. It wasn't the thousands of miles of empty space between Earth and the space station disrupting the signal, but the half kilometre of water between me and the surface. John knew as well as any of my brothers that was how I liked it.

"F.A.B.; will report to Base." John shrugged his shoulders, shook off the tension of even this rather straightforward mission, and settled a little deeper in his chair. "Want me to give Virgil an E.T.A.?"

"Four point three hours, I'm afraid…. What?"

Okay, so my attempt at regret sounded a little more like glee, even to my own ears, but that didn't justify John's wry smile. It wasn't often I was able to take Thunderbird Four on a long run. This little excursion – heading home from an emergency medicine delivery – was the perfect opportunity. The hydrodome I'd just left lay in international territory… according to everyone but Bereznik. That one dispute was enough. There was no point riling up the rogue state… and, whatever Scott thought of letting me go it alone, I agreed with Dad that having two of the world's fastest aircraft hovering on their borders would do just that. If even the World Navy could mistake Thunderbird Two for a missile, I didn't want to guess how Bereznik's cruder radars would classify it. Nope, better by far to drop me a couple of hundred miles out and let me make my own way, safely out of sight.

On the way out, I'd pushed Thunderbird Four to near redline speeds, all too aware of the life that only International Rescue's resources and Four's speed could save. Heading back, I planned to take things rather more easily. Given our hectic lives, we'd learned to take what rest and relaxation time we could. The wat I figured it, I'd earned a bonus with the quiet in-and-out. The four hours of quiet, blue-tinted underwater therapy ahead would be my reward.

John didn't argue. He waved off my mock-indignation, shaking his head. "Four point three hours," he agreed, his expression serious despite the laughter in his blue eyes. "Have fun. Thunderbird Five out."

The radio link closed, John signing off before retuning to talk to Base. Silence descended, disturbed only by the low and rhythmic pulsations of Four's impellors. The waters around me were dark, too deep for sunlight to penetrate, even if it were still daylight above. To be honest, I'd lost track. It wasn't as if it made a difference to this deep world. Four's floodlights lit clouds of plankton, the occasional larger shadow half-glimpsed as it fled the illumination. The lights were already dialled down low, all but useless given their short range at this depth. Now I killed them entirely, counting on a combination of instruments and instinct to give me warning of any obstruction.

Part of me felt drowsy, lulled by the restful darkness and the music of Four's systems. I leaned back in my chair, relaxing but fighting the urge to sleep. In all honesty, Four could manage the journey entirely on autopilot – at least until the time came to redock with her Pod. Even so, I'd never been in these waters before, and didn't plan to miss any part of the opportunity to explore them.

 _– S.O.S –_

I jolted upright in my chair, at least half certain that I'd dozed off despite my own best efforts and dreamed the signal.

 _– S.O.S –_

The groan escaped aloud, even as I leaned forward to grab my headphones and take a firmer grip on my controls. I'd hoped for a lousy four hours of peace and quiet. I'd managed less than twenty minutes.

My first thought was for the hydrodome I'd just left, but wherever this signal came from, it wasn't on the international scientific frequencies that facility used. In fact, I realised with a frown, it wasn't coming in on any of the standard, internationally-recognised channels.

 _– S.O.S –_

I was ready for the third repetition, as I hadn't been for the first two. I didn't need to wait for Thunderbird Four's computers to process the information. I watched it flash onto the screens in real time and made my own extrapolations before Brains' gadgets had time to catch up.

A hydrophone signal? It certainly looked like one, and that meant the chances Thunderbird Five was getting this were slim at best. Likely trajectory was from above, not below, too, and that ruled out the hydrodome once and for all. A surface vessel then? The computer agreed with my conclusion in the same moment I reached it. A surface vessel signalling either to a neighbour or to a coastal base.

But there'd be precious few ships equipped with high-grade hydrophones lurking in contested waters. And only one coastline was even close to being in range.

"Thunderbird Four to Thunderbird Five."

"Five. What's up, Gordy?"

Maybe some of my disquiet got through in my voice, or maybe John was just bored and waiting for a call. Either way his answer almost met my signal coming. I forced a wry smile onto my face, careful to hide the urgency. No need to sound alarm bells – not quite yet.

"Just wondering how busy my water is."

The screen lit. John was sitting upright in his control chair, a careworn paperback book still held loosely in one hand. Despite the situation, that got a smile out of me. Not bored then, just gripped enough not to waste time going any further than his chair. A momentary hope that might mean my brother was too distracted to worry about my call flickered and died. John reached out, grabbing one of Five's ubiquitous checklists and shoving it between the pages without a second glance. Instead his eyes rose, glancing toward the monitors mounted to one side of the camera feed. He shrugged. Some part of the concern eased from his posture as he turned back to me with a confused blink.

"There's a Bereznik cruiser maybe twenty-five miles north east," he reported, a slight frown furrowing his brow. "Nothing else within a hundred and fifty in any direction. Except the coast, of course. From where I'm sitting, Gordy, I'd say you had pretty clear seas."

"Thanks, John. Enjoy the book." I mustered a grin. "It gave Scott nightmares for a week. Four out."

I cut the signal before he could respond to my quip or, more importantly, ask me anything more.

Twenty-five miles? That was close enough for me to be getting the hydro-pulse, even if it was aimed at a coastal base.

 _– S.O.S –_

The signal came again, as if to confirm my suspicion, and now Four's computer had enough to triangulate a rough bearing. Well, that tore it. An S-O-S from a Bereznik cruiser. An S-O-S in international waters… whatever the rogue state thought. I'd sworn an oath, the day I joined W.A.S.P, never to ignore a vessel in distress on the high seas. I'd sworn another when I agreed to join International Rescue – to accept Dad as my commander and obey both his orders and Scott's. I'd never thought the two promises would come into conflict.

No contact with Bereznik military – under any circumstances. That was Dad's sole condition when he gave us the go ahead for this rescue. Scott had been more explicit still – any contact with hostile vessels and I was to disengage at once. Sure, we'd help a ship in distress – if they called us directly and actually asked for the assist. Otherwise things would get political far too quicky. I knew that, and knew neither Scott nor Dad would argue if I responded a direct request. But that wasn't the situation I was facing.

If I showed myself now, I was betting the Bereznik cruiser would warn me off, or even open fire, whatever its own situation. The crews might be the same everyday human folks who smiled at their kids and invited their neighbours over to a grill I'd find anywhere in the world, but they were also the victims of a generation or more of propaganda, nationalism and state-sponsored terror. They'd see – they'd been trained to see – even a genuine rescue attempt as an assault on their sovereignty and an attempt to steal 'secrets' the rest of the world had figured out years ago. They'd go down fighting, convinced that I was the one to blame for their troubles rather than a potential saviour.

I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't ignore the call either.

My fingers drummed against my control yoke.

My frown reflected back to me from the dark glass of the view-screen.

John had seen nothing but the coast in a hundred and fifty mile radius. The coastline itself was barren and unhelpful, a set of sheer granite cliffs making their own contribution to the sense of isolation that prevailed in the nation beyond. If there was a base hidden somewhere there, it was one Thunderbird Five had never got so much as a sniff at. That meant we were looking at a solid hour or even an hour and a half before Bereznik could get a heli-jet to the cruiser's aid. Depending on its situation, that could easily be far too little, far too late. With my mariners' promise nagging at my conscience, there was no way I could trust it to chance.

I sent Five a quick message, signalling my intention to descend further beneath the waves. This time, John's acknowledgement took a few seconds longer to arrive. There was nothing particularly unusual about the manoeuvre, but it did mean that Thunderbird Five would find it harder to track me. In fact it was entirely possible no one would notice as I turned Four's nose north-east, deployed her countermeasures and set a careful course.

At least I kind of hoped so.

* * *

The waters were murky, rich with silt washing down along the coast from the softer beaches north of here. It made judging the depth tricky, particularly with Thunderbird Four riding her passive sensors. I played on the safe side, keeping well above the floor. The net I was trailing behind the sub, decorated with a thousand metal strips to break up her outline, could all too easily catch on a rock outcrop or even some maritime debris, long since abandoned on the ocean floor. Right now, as I concentrated on keeping my bursts of speed short and irregular, pausing and turning like a fast-moving shoal of fish, I didn't want that kind of distraction.

I'd taken maybe half an hour to close on the cruiser's position. That had meant gritting my teeth and forgetting about Four's potential speed. I reckoned the cruiser was too distracted to pay that much attention to their sonar, and I certainly hadn't seen much evidence of active scans, but if there was one, I had to be sure it would pass by without a flicker of concern. Nope, nothing to see here. Just a few finny fish flinging themselves about with their usual abandon. Nothing to worry about. Not compared to the rest of their situation in any case.

The cruiser was listing to starboard at a six degree angle. That didn't sound like a big deal. Heck, it probably didn't feel like one to most of the four-hundred-strong crew aboard. I was kind of surprised the captain had even made the effort to put in a call for help. It told me the lead engineer aboard knew his craft, even if he'd been assigned a rust bucket to practice it on.

Seriously, that cruiser had to be fifty years old. Ex-Old Russian if I was any judge, passed through a dozen hands or more before it fell into the hands of Bereznik's warlords. I was kind of impressed they'd kept it afloat this long; I'd thought this design went out with the Titanic, and for much the same reason. Neither was stable to severe flooding. And judging by the steadily worsening tilt, that was exactly what they had.

A chime from my 'Bird reported the latest measurements, and my breath caught in my throat. Seven degrees, and that meant a noticeable increase in the last three minutes.

 _– S.O.S –_

The hydrophone pulse suggested that the engineer had seen it too. A coded signal followed, indecipherable in the time I had available. Or the time the ship had. Most of the crew wouldn't begin to panic until the deck angle was 15-20 degrees. At that point they'd have seconds at best. Whether the crew realised or not, that thing was perhaps ten minutes away from hitting critical. After that, there'd be no way to prevent a capsize… and no telling how many lives would be lost. Waiting out the Bereznik command response wasn't an option any more.

In fact, I was pretty much out of options altogether.

My fingers stabbed out at my control panel. Thunderbird Four's sensors lit up in instant response to my command, sending a pulse of sonar along the vessel's hull. I saw the problem at once, and knew that the cruiser saw one just as quickly.

I was already manoeuvring Four towards the popped seam when a sonar sweep from the cruiser lit up my mini-sub from nose to tail. My countermeasures were still in place, breaking up my sonar profile enough that even a trained operator would hardly know what to make of it. They knew for sure though that it wasn't just a shoal of fish down here, and I was pretty sure I knew what was coming next.

"Unknown submarine, you are in Bereznik waters! Surface and be boarded. You will face the consequences of what you have done to our vessel!"

Ah, good old reliable paranoia. The fine Bereznik navy can't _possibly_ be so under-resourced that its cruisers burst their seams through simple metal fatigue alone. There _has_ to be a decadent foreigner behind it. No way I was going to convince them otherwise.

"You will leave these waters immediately or we will attack! You will be captured! Your act of cowardly sabotage will be exposed for all the world to see!"

Sure it would.

Activating a set of Four's secondary controls, I reached down beside my seat for my welding mask. Hooking it with one finger, I brushed the radio console with the others, turning down its volume. Not much point in responding. The commander had clearly made his mind up already, and arguing with him wasn't going to do anything but distract me from my task and give them a name to pin their vitriol on. At present, they had no clue who the 'cowardly saboteur' was. If at all possible, I planned to keep it that way.

And besides, I'd promised Dad – and Scott. No contact with the Bereznik military. Well, having them shout insults into the ether didn't constitute contact, not if I didn't answer back. I tried out the thought, playing around with the wording. It sounded halfway convincing. Yeah… and if I kept telling myself that, I might even end up believing it. I suspected that persuading _Dad_ to believe it was going to be a good deal harder.

I felt the shudder as Four's grasping arm came into contact with the first of the warped metal plates and eased it towards the matching edge. Up above, they probably would even notice the nudge. The mass of the ship would absorb a knock that could tumble Four. That same mass would be shielding me, making it hard for them to figure us out in any more detail than they already had.

Water was rushing through the rent between two hull plates by the gallon load. The currents were strong enough to make this job tricky and I caught myself humming tunelessly in concentration. Even with a grip on a nearby spar, I struggled to keep Thunderbird Four steady as I worked my way doggedly along the tear, welding torch alight.

The biggest irony of our job – if you ignore the outraged feelings and the accusations of intrusion from our more reluctant rescuees – is that it's actually not always that hard. Sure, there are the life and death moments, the races against the clock and brushes with disaster. But when things are going as they should, when Brains' technology and our skill work in unison, the actual process of saving a life can be as simple as propping up the right wall… or welding a simple joint.

The ship's list stabilised after the first three minutes. The next two were enough to finish the job. I was just passing back down the line, checking the weld and spraying it with a layer of Brains' patent sealant for safety's sake, when Four's hydrophones picked up the sound of something hitting the water.

And that, I guess, had to be my curtain call.

For the moment, the tangle of metallic limbs that made up a Bereznik aqua-skeleton was still in confusion, the diver inside getting her bearings. Give it another half-minute and she'd get a good look at my mini-sub, its yellow hull and distinctive markings. Knowing the spin Bereznik's state media put on any foreign contact, that wasn't something I could allow. Not if there was any way to avoid the international incident that would follow.

I dived, harder and faster than even an aquatic exo-skeleton ever could. The dark waters swirled and closed around me, visibility only a handful of meters in this murky current. It wasn't until I was already several hundred feet clear of the hull that the welding torch finished its stow procedure. That would need checking, but I was pretty sure it wouldn't take any permanent damage. Now to make sure I didn't either. I slowed up just enough to detach the countermeasure net. A few quick turns and I was already well over five miles from the freshly-welded cruiser, out of range of anything it was likely to be carrying by way of artillery, even if it could spot me.

"Thunderbird Five to Thunderbird Four." John's voice came cool and efficient through the radio, its background distorted by the depth and the speed at which I was moving. "Cruiser has called for submarine hunter-killer aircraft. ETA: forty-five minutes."

"F.A.B." I tried to sound less startled than I felt – not so much at the ingratitude, but by John's attention. "I'll be out of disputed waters in thirty. At the rendezvous in thirty-five."

"Just tell me the ship's not going to sink."

I let out my breath in a long sigh, only now realising what I'd achieved. I grinned, glancing down at the screen. John's book lay discarded beside him. His intent expression told me he'd seen everything. And maybe, just maybe, he understood it too. The rules of space were born from those of the sea, after all.

I shook my head. "Not any more."

"You realise Dad's going to have your hide? And mine for not calling this in when you went rogue."

I raised an eyebrow, matching John's sardonic expression with my own. "I won't tell him if you don't."

John rolled his eyes. We both knew that wasn't going to happen. We'd made a promise, back when International Rescue started, to respect Dad's command. At the end of the day, neither of us would break that… even if, just occasionally, it had to bend a little.

And, you know what? I think even Dad would be good with what I'd done today.

At least… I hoped so.

Only one way to find out.

"Setting course for home!"

* * *

 **The End**


	6. Jeff: Take Care of the Boys

_Author's Note: This is the last of these I'm planning for now. It seems fitting to let Jeff have the last word.  
_

 _I hope you've all enjoyed the series. Many thanks to Quiller for betaing this one for me, and both Quiller and MCJ for prompting me to finally get around to posting it! It's set during the episode "Sun Probe"._

* * *

 **Jeff: Take Care of the Boys**

Take good care of the boys.

It's almost the last thing she said to me.

I remember the scene as clearly as if it were yesterday. She stood in the doorway, her chestnut-brown hair set aflame by the sunlight that spilled past her. Her eyes reflected that same fire, her face turned back towards us as she stood on the threshold. There was laughter in her expression, and most of it was for me. I knew I was hardly taking this with good grace. Being saddled with sole charge of all five of our sons for the weekend was pretty close to my idea of a nightmare. Even if I managed to avoid pre-teen sulks from Scott and John, I was ill-equipped to deal with our two hyperactive toddlers, or Virgil's insistent demands for attention. It wasn't that I was a bad father, I was sure of that. It's just that she dealt with this every day, while I worked to put a roof over our heads and food on the table. By the time I got home, even at weekends, the boys would be fed, washed and settled, almost ready for bed. Pecking them on the cheeks, tucking them in and telling the odd story, I could manage. Even the occasional pick-up ball game if by some rare chance I happened to be home. Anything more complicated and we all tended to look to their mother.

A full weekend without her – well, judging by the sceptical looks I'd been getting from Scott, I wasn't alone in fearing the worst. We were both resigned though. I'd given up trying to persuade her not to go – not that I'd tried all that hard, she had every right to take up her friends' invite – but I'm pretty sure my terror showed on my face.

Laughter escaped her in a low musical chuckle. Clinging to her ankle, Alan chuckled too, and I reached forward to grab the family baby, swinging him onto my hip before slipping an arm around my wife's shoulders and pulling her into a kiss. Her body swayed into mine, the two of us perfectly matched. She was tall, just as I was and our boys would be, and still slim despite the curves that repeated motherhood had put on her figure. She laughed again, pulling away, and planted a last peck on Alan's cheek and then mine as she disengaged. The other boys got brisk hugs, at least two of our middle children too keen to get back to their cartoons to do more than squirm out of her grasp and head back to the vid screen.

She shook her head, rueful, as our rebel tween Scott accepted his embrace with barely civil toleration rather than affection. Glancing back at me, she grasped the door handle, ready to pull it to. She spoke softly, her tone amused.

"Take good care of the boys."

I smiled, despite everything, laughing with her even though I was the butt of the joke. "I'll do my best," I promised.

* * *

The sky is darkening, the day nearly over. Overhead, the clouds are painted red, purple and gold, set aflame by the dying light. The disk of the Sun seems to slow as it sinks towards the watery horizon; already this ordeal has stretched out for an eternity and it's not going to end any time soon.

Somewhere beyond the horizon - as far out of my reach as the stars themselves - Thunderbird Three is burning, flying too close to the Sun, and taking two of my sons with it.

Alan.

Scott.

Tin-Tin too. The daughter we never had, and every bit as much part of the family as any of our boys.

Sending them after the Sun Probe was brave, maybe even arrogant, but I'd never have done it if I hadn't thought the plan would work… would I? I'm the one who has built International Rescue, after all. I put my sons in danger every day, if rarely as far into the fire as my eldest and youngest are now.

Take good care of the boys.

I promised her I would. Guilt furrows my brow, and I see Gordon mirror the expression, though I can't spare the energy to wonder what's going through the boy's head. Our frowns deepen when Virgil fails to answer, and where before I was burning with the fires of self-doubt, now my heart freezes as cold as the summit of Mount Arken.

Three of my sons have fallen silent. Three in one day.

I promised to take care of them.

Once, the idea of being left alone with all five of our boys terrified me. Now I cannot imagine a day passing without seeing their faces, without their voices and their laughter filling my home.

Virgil answers.

We wait.

The news comes through. Tentative, but with cautious optimism that loosens the clamp around my chest.

And then… finally… Alan and Scott's voices fill the air, reporting their success, heading for home.

The crisis passes, but even as the boys retire to their rooms, I know I'm not the only one who'll be restless and wakeful tonight. They'll be running over what-ifs and maybes, just as I am. They'll realise again how precious each of their lives is, and how much we risk losing every day. And maybe, just maybe, they'll remember other losses and think of their mother too.

I promised her I'd look after our sons, and then I built this organisation regardless… in her honour… in her memory.

I remember the sight of her framed in the doorway, the love in her eyes.

"Take good care of the boys," she told me, and her expression softened as she listened to my murmured response. "Jeff, you can do this. You'll all be fine. It's not even two days. I'll be back in time for dinner tomorrow."

That was the last thing she said to me… to any of us.

And sitting alone in the lounge, my eyes resting on portraits of our five fine young men, I know she'd forgive me for breaking that last promise I made to her.

After all, she broke hers first.

* * *

 **The End.**


End file.
